


Sight Unseen

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson's been having eyestrain, or at least that's what he thinks. Set shortly after 8x02, Transplant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sight Unseen

Wilson was in a meeting with Reggie Patel when it happened. He looked up from the lab results to give Mr. Patel a reassuring smile and there it was-- a halo gleaming around his desk lamp.

He finished up his meeting and closed the door. By then his eye ached and his vision was blurred. He fished a water bottle out of his desk and held it to his face. The coolness felt good.

This was the fourth episode. Always before rest in a dim room had been enough to make him feel better. He knew he should get his eye checked out but he also knew that if he went to one of the PPTH doctors the entire hospital would know by lunchtime. Besides, he was pretty sure this was nothing more than eyestrain.

Wilson turned off the lights and closed the blinds. He made his way to the sofa. It was closer than he’d thought; he banged his shin against it.

He seated himself carefully, put his feet up and rested his fingertips gently against his eye. Naturally, his office phone chose that moment to ring. Without thinking he moved to rise and answer it, but a stab of pain and a surge of nausea stopped him. Wilson decided that moving was a bad idea. He settled back against the couch, leaned his head against his hand, and tried to rest. Now he was stuck waiting for the attack to pass.

With nothing to occupy him, his mind wandered. To Sam, married now with two teenage stepsons. To Cuddy, with her home still on the market as she struggled to make a new start anywhere other than here. To House, fresh out of prison. Back in his old office, and back in Wilson's life.

Sometimes Wilson thought he had never really known any of them. He'd been so blind.

The nausea returned. He took deep breaths and told himself not to throw up. The pain was getting worse. It had never been this bad before. There was no way this was eyestrain. Wilson tried to remember the eye disorders that fit his symptoms but he couldn't focus his whirling thoughts.

It would have been possible for him to move away like Cuddy had. He'd had some offers--New York, Boston, Baltimore. But he knew it would be the same wherever he went, because he would be the same, and New Jersey was home.

Wilson fished the pager out of his pocket and sent for House. There were advantages to knowing a genius diagnostician with a pocketful of analgesics.

It felt weird to be paging House. Only a little while ago Wilson had honestly thought he would never see House again. He had accepted that. He’d put House out of his mind. He'd changed his life around, made it healthier—more exercise, no red meat, no felons. But here he was, with a whole medical staff at his disposal and friends and family one speed dial away, yet it was House he paged.

His fingers were wet. Wilson opened his eyes to see what was on them but his vision was so blurry that he couldn’t tell. He didn’t think it was blood. Was he sweating? Wilson fumbled with his pager and entered House’s number again by touch. Damn, his eye hurt. Wilson gripped the couch cushions tightly, wanting to hold on to something solid. He paged again.

What if House didn’t have his pager on him?

Wilson had to do something. He needed help. He had his pager in his hand already. All he needed to do was contact someone else--someone responsible enough to look at the damn thing when it buzzed. That couldn't be too hard, could it? He turned it over in his palm.

He couldn’t remember a single number aside from House’s and his own.

All right then. He was going to have to go for help. Wilson sat up, forcing himself to loose his grip on the cushion. Then he got to his feet. His head swam for a moment but that passed. He was going to do this. He was going to go into the hallway and get help.

Two steps later the pain spiked. Crying out, he cupped his eye and fell to his knees. Wilson started to retch. He was being loud now but that was good, because there was no way he was going to make it to the hall.

The door opened.

Wilson raised his head and saw a very blurry figure leaning on a very blurry cane.

“What happened?” House asked, and then he was on the floor, his hands on Wilson’s face, urging Wilson’s hand away from his eye. “Let me see.”

House shone a light in his eye, bright and haloed. Wilson groaned in complaint.

“There’s no foreign object in there,” House said. “No inflammation or infection either, but you're oozing fluid.” He turned to someone behind him. “Get a gurney. Hurry.”

They ran out.

“Migraine or glaucoma,” House said. “Do either of those ring a bell?”

Wilson shook his head. He put his hand back over his eye. It didn't help.

"Does your head hurt?" House asked hopefully.

"Only my eye. Feels like something heavy is pressing on it."

"This ever happen before?"

"Yes," Wilson said. "Not this bad."

"And your doctor said?" House prompted.

"I didn't have one."

House paused. Wilson waited for the snarky comment about working in a hospital surrounded by doctors, but it didn't come.

"Okay," House said briskly, and Wilson knew House had understood the things he hadn't said. "Acute angle-closure glaucoma." House didn’t sound pleased with this diagnosis. Wilson wasn’t either, but House was going to have to worry about it for him right now because all Wilson could handle was lying here on the floor not screaming.

Wilson heard several people run in. They picked him up and got him onto a gurney. The bump as they wheeled him across the threshold of the elevator jostled his head. It was excruciating.

"One more bump," House said. "Just to get to the ER."

The elevator stopped. Wilson grabbed the gurney rail with his free hand and squeezed. It helped enough to keep him from making a sound as they wheeled him out.

They took him into the E.R. House started snapping orders. There were people there--voices Wilson recognized but couldn't place. He knew these people, had worked with them for years. It bothered him that he couldn't identify their voices.

Someone jabbed a needle into him, and Wilson jumped in surprise. Warmth spread slowly through him. His muscles felt heavy, ungainly. He felt himself start to relax.

House took his arm. "IV," House told him. "Pain medicine and something to reduce intraocular pressure." He inserted the needle.

"How bad?" Wilson asked, trying to see House's expression. Both eyes were watering now, though, and everything was blurry. He could make out only splotches of color.

"I don't know. They're getting Vasquez to take a look," he said, and Wilson felt a little hope. If anyone could save his vision, she could. "When the pressure's down she'll do the iridotomy. Chase and I are going to assist."

Wilson nodded. The drug kept him from panic. He was tired now. His eyes drifted closed.

 

***

"House, go home!" That was Foreman yelling. Wilson struggled to open his eyes. It hurt but it was better than it had been.

"No," House said.

 _Good_ , Wilson thought.

"You know my next step is to call security." Foreman said it in that soft, faux sympathetic voice he'd learned from Cuddy. Wilson had used to believe it from him. House had too, so maybe Wilson wasn't the only one with perception problems here.

"Just because you're my boss doesn't give you the right to control his visitors. My parole specifically allows me to be here. I'm his doctor and his proxy. You can't throw me out. Or do you want the publicity of tossing a disabled man out of his best friend's room?"

 _You tell him_ , Wilson thought. He heard Foreman mumble something, heard him leave.

***

"You should get some sleep."

It was Chase. Why had Chase woken him up to tell him to get some sleep?

"I am sleeping," House said. "Be quiet before you wake him up."

_Oh. Too late, House._

"You know nothing is going to happen until tomorrow, and that's if his pressure stabilizes. I'm going to go home and get some rest. Neither of us is doing anyone any good here."

"No."

"House--" Chase hesitated. "He didn't ask you to stay."

_What?!_

"He didn't need to," House answered, but his voice was hollow, like a thin plank stretched over a pit.

Wilson wanted to say something then, but he was so tired...

***

Wilson woke. His eye ached in a dull, distant way. He blinked a few times and was happy to feel no tearing. His vision had improved a lot, though the room was too dim to be certain how blurry his sight was. But he could make out House sitting on a chair, with his head pillowed against the wall. The position looked supremely uncomfortable.

"House."

House must have been dozing, because he sat up immediately. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

Without waiting for an answer he came over and checked Wilson's vitals. As he did so the light from the hall shone onto House's face. He looked exhausted.

"I'm fine," Wilson told him. "You should sleep."

"I was sleeping."

"I didn't say you should doze as best you can on a chair that's barely comfortable enough to sit in. I said you should sleep. In a bed."

House removed his belt.

"House? What are you—"

House didn't answer, just stepped out of his shoes and lowered the bed rail.

"Most people ask before they climb into bed with another person," Wilson grumbled.

"You really want me assisting with your surgery on anything less than…" House looked at his watch "three hours of decent sleep?"

Wilson rolled onto his side, annoyed and defeated. House moved restlessly beside him. He couldn't seem to get comfortable. It was going to be impossible to sleep this way.

"Neither of us will get any sleep if you don't lay still." He realized House's leg was probably cramped from sleeping in that chair. He reached automatically for the bed controls, but he wasn't sure that raising the foot of the bed would help. He sat up, grabbed the pillow and, with a laconic, "lift up," tucked it beneath House's leg. He smoothed the blanket over them both and lay back down.

Wilson tried to make his head comfortable on the mattress. After a few minutes he declared failure and rolled onto his back. It wasn't much better. House had a gift for inconveniencing you while being kind. Maybe his parents had pissed off the wrong fairy when he was born. It would explain a lot.

House was still. His leg was better, at least. It was nice of him to have stayed. Loyal. A more than fair exchange for a pillow.

Wilson spoke into the darkness. "He's right, you know."

House turned to him. "Who?"

"Chase. It never even occurred to me to ask you to stay."

House grunted. "It never occurred to me to leave."

The words made Wilson's breath catch in his throat. He searched House's face as best he could. There was no sign of the man who'd broken his wrist and walked away.

There hadn't been last time either. Until he showed up and everything went to hell. But Wilson had walked out on House, once. People were capable of all kinds of things under the right--or wrong--circumstances. Most people never found themselves in those circumstances.

"I presumed," Wilson said. "I shouldn't have. So I'll ask you now. Will you stay?"

Wilson felt more than saw House's smile.

"Only if you stop talking."

There wasn't enough room for two grown men in the bed, not nearly enough room for them to sleep without banging into one another. The best they could do was pretend not to notice.

That was okay with Wilson.

 

Epilogue:

"I think we got to it in time," Vasquez said as she unwrapped the gauze around Wilson's head. "There should be no permanent change to your vision. But you must see me immediately if symptoms recur."

Wilson knew that. He'd have to be careful not to let the pressure build up again.

Vasquez finished with the wrapping. A large gauze pad covered Wilson's eye. Her fingers hovered over it. "Ready?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

The pad lifted slowly away from his face. Vasquez wiped the eye with a damp gauze pad to clean it.

Wilson opened his eye, blinked. The world swam into place.

"How is your vision, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson blinked again. He looked over the room, seeing the calm blue walls of Vasquez's office, the walnut desk, the older woman's face, anxiously crinkled up beside him. Turning his head to the right he saw generic floral art on the wall.

When he turned left he saw House. Wilson could make out the bulk of the ankle bracelet under his jeans. His cane was in one hand; the other played restlessly with the Vicodin bottle in his pants pocket. A handful of lollipops stolen from the clinic stuck out of the pocket of his wrinkled shirt.

House's face was the same as always. The expression it bore was of casual interest, while the gaze that raked him was anything but.

"Dr. Wilson?" Vasquez asked again. "How is your vision?"

"Yes," Wilson answered, though his eyes were on House. "I--thank you. Thank you so much. I can see..." he trailed off, searching for a word, "everything."

Vasquez rewarded him by scheduling their first follow up. As Wilson bent over her agenda House threw a lollipop his way. Wilson snapped it out of the air. He unwrapped it and offered it to House with a flourish.

House looked satisfied. "Your vision really is okay."

"Don't worry, House. I see you fine."

They stepped out of Vasquez's office side by side. House patted his shirt pocket. He retrieved a second lollipop and extended it out to Wilson.

"Keep this one," he said, "and stop ignoring symptoms."

"Denial is a basic part of the human psyche," Wilson argued, but he took the candy.

House grinned. "And high fructose corn syrup cures all ills."

"Only if it comes with red food dye," Wilson corrected mildly. He saluted House with his candy and stuck it into his mouth.

"Glad you're feeling better," House said around his lollipop. The white stick moved as he spoke. "I need someone to convince the wife of a patient to let me saw his skull open."

"Lead the way," Wilson replied. "If the sight of me in a patient gown doesn't sway her, the candy will."

House stopped in his tracks. "What did you say?"

"Just that you should have brought her candy. You know, Mary Poppins? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?"

House said nothing. His mouth was open and his eyes darted around like goldfish on speed.

"And this is where you take off without another word," Wilson said as, in near perfect synchrony, House turned and walked swiftly down the hall.

Wilson rolled his eyes—it felt good to do that without pain—and made his way to his office and the change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. He was smiling. It was good to know that some things never changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: to my awesome beta, srsly_yes
> 
> Disclaimer: House, M.D. belongs to David Shore, Universal Television, Heel and Toe Productions, and a lot of other people who are not me. I'm not making any money from this.


End file.
